


you remind me that i wanted you to kiss me

by orphan_account



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Frottage, Kissing, M/M, Making Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-10
Updated: 2018-01-10
Packaged: 2019-03-03 01:41:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13330797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: aloud i only suggest my transcribing while he works. the other thoughts burrow into the back of my head.is it better to speak or to die?i seek hospice in a purgatory elsewhere, speaking only fragments of desire.—a summer day spent indoors, where time ceases to have meaning.





	you remind me that i wanted you to kiss me

**Author's Note:**

> hello and welcome to the most beautiful porn i’ve ever written. 
> 
> i recently saw call me by your name and subsequently read the novel, so i figured i’d write a little something to soften the blow of two heartbreaks in quick succession. 
> 
> title from fiona apple’s ‘anything we want’. 
> 
> enjoy! not betaed and in lowercase on purpose.

i’m startled awake by the sudden press of oliver’s weight on top of me. his nose is in my hair. he breathes softly, like moans, sighs, like sentences filled with longing. i push my ass back against him. i can feel his grin press against my skin, wolfish. he thinks he’s corrupting me. i think i’ve already been corrupted. 

he says, good morning. he says, i went to the market early this morning and picked up a book. i peer over my shoulder at him to see him fully dressed, smiling like a fool. he throws the book at my face, the softcover smacking me. i complain. he gets up and laughs, strips off his shorts and replaces them with his swim trunks. i appreciate the view. 

i pick up the book. the cover is nondescript, but upon opening to a random page near the middle, i’m flooded by an onslaught of the dirtiest prose i think i’ve ever seen on the written page. 

“what is this?” i say. 

he shrugs. his muscles move under his shoulders. i shake my head, mustn’t let myself get distracted. i so desperately want to get distracted. 

“found it in a sale pile,” he explains. “flipped through it. isn’t it uniquely filthy?”

i read through a page, overwhelmed by the amount of cocks and fucks and comes and oh god oh god oh gods that cover it. 

“yes,” i reply. i squirm a little. he didn’t expect me to be unaffected by this, did he?

“and two men,” he comments. i nod, but i figure he can’t see me. he’s folding up his clean laundry. 

i flip to the next page. more cocks and asses and coming and fuck, fuck, _fuck_. i close the book. 

oliver buttons up his shirt. 

“are you going to paradise?” i say. i think i may sit with him and transcribe for a while, if he invites me. 

he nods. “i think so.”

we sit in silence for a while; the book in my hand, his fingers deftly finishing the last buttons. 

then, “would you like to come along?”

yes. i repeat my earlier thought. i’ll transcribe for a bit while he reads over his work. maybe then we’ll go off to the berm and he will kiss me. maybe we’ll go swim elsewhere. maybe we’ll come back here and make love. 

aloud i only suggest my transcribing while he works. the other thoughts burrow into the back of my head. 

is it better to speak or to die?

i seek hospice in a purgatory elsewhere, speaking only fragments of desire. 

—

after a while, he grows bored of his work and runs his fingers through the water beside him. 

i sip lemonade, offered to us by mafalda and accepted wholeheartedly, and watch him. he wears sunglasses, but i can feel his eyes on me. they linger on parts of my body; my neck, my collarbone, my wrist, my ankles. 

his fingers never cease movement. 

—

we go back to his room after our short trip to paradise and stare at eachother. we don’t move, but we circle eachother like wild animals, waiting to pounce. i am bloodthirsty. i wonder if he feels the same. 

in one swift movement, he has me up against the wall, his mouth against my neck, kissing me there, one hand cupping the side of my face, the other around my hip. he nudges his nose against my jawline and i tilt my head farther back. he breathes, hard, through his mouth. we sound like animals, we are animals. he wants me, bloody and bruised and i want him the same, torn open and gasping for air. 

we move to the bed, our bodies fighting against eachother. i shoulder him in the arm, he grabs my side and my hand, i bite his jaw, pull him down to kiss me. 

we kiss like fools, mouths open and barely touching, molecules rubbing together at a microscopic level, he twines his tongue with mine and begins undoing my shirt. i do the same to his. 

i fall to the bed and he crawls over me, like he is preparing to strike. i spread myself wide. i will allow him to strike. i will allow him to dig his teeth into me and bleed me dry, to remove my heart from my chest and toss it elsewhere. my body wants him, primal and at a base state. 

he moves his teeth against my chest, catching on my skin. he licks my nipple and shoulders his shirt the rest of the way off. 

i want you, he says. i can tell he wants me, but he says it anyway. i want you, i want you. oliver, oliver, oliver. 

i pull him to me again, kiss him. it is deeper, more coordinated. his dominant position over me giving his body more sense of the situation. i want to flip him around and reverse it. i want to play him like liszt would play bach. i want him, i want him. elio, elio, elio. 

he tugs at my trunks and pulls them down far enough for me to kick off. he does the same. we are both leaking precome onto our stomachs, physical evidence of the impatience we feel. i tug his hair and he moans. he is an enigma, all too ready to push me down and ravish me, but wanting desperately to be held and hurt. i wish to give him both at once. 

“oliver,” he says, as our cocks make contact. i reply in kind. he moves over me, our flesh wet and moving erratically. 

i twine a hand into his hair, dig my nails into his neck. he holds me by the sides of my chest. we are both close. i imagine we have both been close since he returned home with the book. for him, perhaps even before, flipping through the pages in the store, eyes widening, desire plummeting into his gut. 

a man licks up the length of his lover. oliver puts the book under his arm and pays for it. he ducks around a corner and stands there until his breathing evens out, book pressed up against his chest. 

then, i imagine, he thinks of me. 

i move against him, my hips jutting up and my cock sliding against his. i bite my lip. i can feel myself beginning to come. if i focus, i can feel him too. his fingers tighten into my skin. he may bruise me. days later, i may press my fingers into the bruises and remember this millisecond of a moment. 

i come first, spurting up against my stomach. it reaches my chin, and oliver gasps out a manic giggle as he begins to come against me as well, coating my stomach further. 

oliver breathes, the sound shaky and deep, almost like a panic. his face is slack, his cheeks flushed. _paradiso_. 

i run my fingers through the come on my chin and press them to his lips. he opens and lets them in, suckles on them. i feel my eyelids droop, close entirely. he leans down and licks my chin clean, licks my lips, kisses me, soft.

“good?” he murmurs, moving to press his lips into my neck. 

i nod. i do not trust myself with words yet. perhaps if i could write them down, my hand moving without thought. you’ll kill me if you stop, you’ll kill me if i stop. 

“good,” he says, belly now pressed to mine. we could stick together like this, combined desire pulling us into eachother, becoming one person. i wonder if oliver would scoff at the sentiment, or if he too thinks of the two of us in this way. as one entity, filled with love and joy and hope and fear. 

i realize, in this short moment of clarity, that we’re both wearing our necklaces. both pile onto my chest, laying side by side, pressing in like a brand. 

proof of our brotherhood, of the love we share. i don’t believe i would regret a permanent reminder of this moment. i don’t believe i ever could. 

oliver rolls off of me with some effort and takes a deep, shuddering breath. 

i would think of how much time we have left, but time has disappeared. i don’t know what day it is. he could be leaving tomorrow and i would not know. we could be stuck in a neverending loop, the two of us waking up and working and making love until the sun sets. 

oliver leans over and traces the tips of his fingers against my skin, taut against my collarbones. 

he hums. i ask him what he’s thinking. 

“i don’t think i’ll ever see another thing as beautiful as you,” he says, soft and even. 

my stomach aches. i am covered in our combined ejaculate, my hair swept back from sweat. i’ve bitten through my lower lip and bruises from his fingertips cover me from head to toe. 

i repeat the sentiment and he leans over to kiss my shoulder. the sun sets against his skin. he is. he is the most beautiful thing i’ve seen, the most beautiful thing i will ever see. his eyes start to close. 

i turn and tap my fingers against his chest. i compose a piece on his skin as he dozes, up and down a scale only i can see. i imagine the sound of him, the sound of the sun rising and setting, the sound of his sighs. i press them into him here. later i will write them down and play them for him. 

i wonder if he’ll recognize the melody.

**Author's Note:**

> follow me @margaritaville on tumblr if you go in for that kind of thing.


End file.
